


The Tailor And The Composer

by transmarkcohen



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eighteenth Century AU, I think there might actually be limited angst in this one??, M/M, Music, Sewing, colonial AU, composer, tailor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-05 07:29:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transmarkcohen/pseuds/transmarkcohen
Summary: Mark sees his life as a single thread, shimmering and straightforward, until this clatter of scales and chatter disrupts the tapestry he’s planned out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeadlinesBreadlinesBlowMyMind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadlinesBreadlinesBlowMyMind/gifts).



**1739.**

**Boston, Massachusetts - Seaside.**

**TAILOR.**

 

    Mark pulls the sea green thread through the needle, its eye an inch from his. His tongue is just a bit out-a habit he has when thinking. The sleeves of his button-up shirt are rolled up, and his pants are somewhat itchy.

    The thread goes through on the first try. Mark smiles at the small triumph. With so much gone wrong in his life before, his humble job keeps him happy and keeps food on the table. He pulls the thread’s ends down to meet each other, looping the thin string around his finger and rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger to form a knot. This is when the bell above the door rings. Mark glances at it, annoyed to be interrupted from his work but happy for a customer. He puts down the needle and thread meticulously and comes from behind the counter to greet this customer.

    It’s a man around Mark’s age-late twenties, early thirties. He has blond hair, and needs a haircut. And a shower. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, his socks have different lengths, his pants are barely held up by a belt, and-is he wearing the wrong shoes?!

    He’s glancing around the store, in particular to his left. He’s muttering to himself. Mark approaches the man.

    “Hello,” he says. “I am the tailor. You wish for clothes, do you not?”

    The man doesn’t appear to hear Mark. Mark frowns, and speaks louder.

    “Good fellow,” says Mark, gritting his teeth and attempting to be polite, “you are at the tailor’s. Kindly buy something, request something, or leave.”

    The man’s eyes finally fall on Mark. They’re a startling blue-just like the ocean was the day Mark reached port in America. “Hello,” he finally answers Mark. “I’m looking for a song.”


	2. Chapter 2

**1739.**

**Boston, Massachusetts - Seaside.**

**COMPOSER.**

 

The tailor is scrawny. That is Roger’s first thought upon seeing him. He wasn’t really looking for a tailor, only, someone to talk to. He has been here only two days and he is already bored out of his mind. 

He furrows his brow behind his glasses, scrutinizing Roger. “A song?” He asks. There is an accent in his voice that Roger can just barely hear-he has clearly tried to keep it out.

Roger nods affirmatively. “Yes,” he answers. “A song. Notes. Music. I’m a composer.” 

Mark’s eyes go hard. “I am attempting to run a business here,” he refutes. “As I said, buy something or request something-or just  _ leave.”  _ He steps behind the counter and picks up a sewing needle, ready to get back to work. 

Roger steps towards the counter, smiling. “You’re intimidated,” he says. Mark’s eyes flick over him, but he gives no response. “By me.” 

“Sir-“ 

Roger puts his hands on the counter. “I’ll buy something,” he says. “Buy you dinner.” 

Mark drops the needle out of shock. “You’ll  _ what?”  _ He says the what with an aspiration-he’s so shocked that it sounds like “hwhat”. 

Roger puts his elbow on the counter and leans his face into his hand. He’s still smiling. “I’ll buy you dinner,” he repeats. “Your face is quite attractive.” 

Mark is flustered. Roger knows his name because there is a worn sign on the front of the counter that reads MARK COHEN, TAILOR. But the sign looks-etched over, somehow. As if Mark’s wasn’t always the only name there.

Mark glares at Roger and his heavy accent comes out. “You come into my store and you think you can just waltz, do what you want, you cannot! Get out!  _ Get out!”  _ Mark fiercely waves his hand at Roger, shooing him out the door, starting to speak in a language Roger can’t understand that sounds like “ _ Hzshdjopslklo”.  _

Roger holds his hands up in protest. “Okay, okay!” He says, and he flees the store. 


End file.
